


the wing that will not carry cries "kill"

by BlindSwandive



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels are not humans, Broken Bones, Broken Wings, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mutilation, Non-Consensual, Not your mama's wing kink, Pining Castiel (Supernatural), Probably not fanon compliant tho, References to crow funerals, References to predator/prey behavior, Right up until it isn't, Sort Of, Stabbing, Unrequited Castiel/Dean Winchester, Unrequited Crush, Vessel/grace weirdness, Wing Kink, Wing defilement, angel and knight of hell true form weirdness, wanted it but not like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Castiel and Sam have been trying to save Dean from the Mark of Cain.  Dean makes excruciatingly clear he is done with them trying to fix him.Or,An alternate ending for S10 episode 22, "The Prisoner," where Dean uses that angel blade on Castiel after all.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Implied Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester - Relationship
Comments: 17
Kudos: 36
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Nonconathon 2020





	the wing that will not carry cries "kill"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragonwithatale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonwithatale/gifts).



> For the prompt: "Castiel is forced to show his wings during a rape"
> 
> For the lovely dragonwithatale and you other delicious kinky multishippers. Many thanks to my wonderful girlfriend wings_of_crows and TFWBT for help and feedback! 
> 
> Also for the Banned Together Bingo square "Rape and Mutilation." Poor, poor Castiel.
> 
> Please heed the tags. If additional tags are needed, please let me know. If it's still for you, feedback is love. <3

Castiel stares at the bodies Dean has left in the library, at the boy--the boy who is dead and too young and whose only crime was his birthright--and knows he cannot let Dean leave the Bunker with the Mark of Cain still on his body. Dean has destroyed an entire bloodline, today, wiped a people from the earth without remorse; for all his promises that he is in control, the Mark promises otherwise, promises it in bone and blood and death.

Castiel knows now how this ends, knows it the way he knows how many bones make up the wing of a crow or how many Thursdays have passed since creation: it ends with Dean alone at the end of the world, resting on a pile of corpses, the jawbone of an ass in his hand. The Knight of Hell, triumphant, as the world burns.

Sam was right; they cannot stop trying to save Dean, not while there is even a thread of hope.

Castiel knows it is dangerous when he does it--knows it is dangerous to look Heaven or Hell in the face and hope that the humanity beneath will be revealed before the flesh is destroyed--but he puts his body between the Mark and the world and prays Dean will come to his senses before Castiel dies by his hands. Dean would have done the same for him, before. He has done it for Sam, blind with Lucifer's fury, and he has done it for Castiel, blind with the ministrations of Naomi; has worn the marks of divine intervention on his body, his face so shattered it was barely a face, rather than let Sam or Castiel be swallowed by the power of the great and endless war of the spheres. Castiel owes him the same indulgence. Castiel owes Dean pain, owes him sacrifice, owes him devotion. Castiel fell for Dean, for the promise of his perfect humanity, lets it lie coiled around his spirit like an anchor even now; now is no time to give up believing. 

Dean fractures the vessel's clavicle, right humerus and left radius with his bare hands, cracks two ribs with his knee, and leaves the broken debris that is this body on the ground with the corpses. And when Castiel pleads with him to stay, drags the resistant flesh back to its feet, Dean drives the splintered ribs into a lung; uses his fists, his skull, and the furniture to damage the zygomatic bone, the frontal bone, the nasal bones, and the maxilla; to concuss the delicate grey matter against the skull repeatedly until the fog threatens to swallow Castiel's mind.

It must work because he does not recall landing on the floor on his belly but he opens his eyes and finds himself there. He is reconstructing his trajectory as Dean rolls him roughly onto his back, and the dangerous slick slide of his blade being drawn out of his sleeve makes the heart twitch and stammer in his chest. The body's prey instinct is powerful, and even though it is now too weak and damaged to move with any ease, the skin is squirming over the flesh and the hairs are standing on end, the entire bloodied mass of it screaming _Away_ and _Now_ and _No, please, no._

"No," he begs numbly, tongue thick and clumsy, as Dean raises Castiel's own weapon against him. 

"Dean, please," he groans out on a bubble of blood.

Dean is staring down at him, hovering in the instant before the kill, but Castiel cannot tell if Dean truly sees him any longer. He cannot even tell for certain if Dean is the thing that is looking down at him; the Mark may be written on his flesh in scars, but it is writ on his soul in blood and the jawbone of an ass and darkness.

In the eternity of the swing of the blade, Castiel looks on his friend, or what remains of him, with love. He looks on him with love, and with sorrow, and with lost hope. He counts the teeth on Dean's soul.

He asks his Father's forgiveness, but he cannot find forgiveness in himself for his Father.

He wonders if dying will hurt; at least, he supposes, it will be brief.

When the blade connects, the pain is blinding, and not brief; it does not end. He is not dead.

"Get up from that," Dean says, smug, but Castiel does not really hear it through the sound that is coming out of his body--coming out of _him_. It is the wind in the shrieking caverns, the opening of a lock on a river, and the flood in its wake is made of pain and blindness and visceral terror. The blade has pierced through his vessel's shoulder and through his great celestial body, has struck clear through them both into the marble floor below, and in an instant his spirit is pinned into his broken body like a butterfly to Linnaeus' pinboard.

His vision is white. He is snow-blind and drowning.

It takes an eon, a breath, to realize that in its eagerness to rend away from the damage and the pain, his celestial self has attempted flight, and the white light blinding him is his own. His tattered wings have opened beneath him, grand and shattered across the floor, but they can carry him nowhere in this state. Even when they were full-feathered, blinding and electric, the angel blade would have kept him rooted to the place it was earthed.

Around him, there is a soft rustle of paper and dust as the debris of bodies and books his wings displaced settles back to the earth.

Castiel feels like a collection of random electrical impulse, without rhyme or reason. He is a seizure, a lightning storm, and all the great power of his spirit and all the screaming in his vessel's nerves are twisted together into an inseparable briar of pain. The light finally dims around him as his grace withdraws deeper inside, desperate to knit together the vessel before it falls apart, if it cannot escape it, but it makes no orderly assessment, no steady progression; a lung has collapsed and Castiel wheezes blood, but the bones of his face are healing. He cannot move his arm for the broken collarbone, but hairline fractures in his fingers are mended.

He aches everywhere. 

Dean unshields his face as the glow softens and stares down at Castiel, slack-jawed.

Castiel thinks with a pang of ache and regret that Dean will leave now; if Dean doesn't mean to kill Castiel, he has certainly immobilized him, so there is nothing left to slow his progress, after all. He will go and he will leave them and he will continue his slow march of death and blood until he is consumed by it, and by the time Castiel has repaired his vessel sufficient to pull the blade from the marble, Dean will be miles gone. Somehow that hurts more than all the cracked bone and the blade. 

Castiel wishes he could lift his hand, wishes he could grip Dean's shoulder again, right over the ghost of the mark he left there years ago when he raised Dean's perfect, tattered soul, bloodied and beautiful, from Perdition, but it will not comply. The arm is useless and Castiel is useless and now he cannot simply lift Dean out of this hell he is in. This hell is inside of him. 

But Dean does not go, stays rooted to the spot on his knees, instead. Dean stays, staring, and Castiel forces himself to focus through the agony, to look, and finds something dawning in Dean's eyes. 

Dean is looking down at him and seeing the pain, and the blood, and the suffering he has made on Castiel's body and spirit, and it has caused an epiphany, just as Castiel had hoped it might, but it is not his perfect and precious humanity that has awoken at the sight. Castiel looks up and finds the Mark looking back at him, teeth bared, salivating and hungry.

Castiel's vessel and grace are trying to crawl away from one another again, all of the mammalian prey warnings lighting up his body in turn, and his broken wings twitch, curl and press in their own efforts to tear him from this place, from this body. Dean's eyes dart furtive, enraptured by the drag and weak flap, and Castiel has seen this look before, the compulsion of the predator faced with a wing that will not carry. Cat or snake or wolf or hellhound: a twisted feather and a flightless drag are ambrosia, a hypnotic lure that cries _mine_ and _kill._

Castiel tries to still his wings, fixes his energy on the arm that will not cooperate to speed the work of healing there--he can almost feel Dean's claws in his wings and teeth at his throat--but Dean doesn't lunge. 

A shaking inhale of breath, open-mouthed, like Dean can scent the blood on the air--and Castiel is certain, suddenly, that he can--and then Dean's eyes close in rapture, his hands coming down slow and reverent to Castiel's sunken ribs.

The weight of his fingers is a threat over the cracked bones but Dean only touches as deep as the bruises, only enough to make Castiel's skin twitch and break out in sweat but no more. But he doesn't dare breathe.

A traitorous part of Castiel aches to see Dean's face like this, cracked open and dizzy, to feel Dean's fingers soft on his body, but he closes his eyes, denies it--always denies it--guilty and unbidden. It is not his to want. But he has never known how not to want it. 

The great avenging angel reduced to a moth circling Dean's flame.

"Please..." Castiel begins, but he isn't sure how to finish the plea; whether he means to ask Dean to stay to give them a chance, or simply not kill him where he lies, to not hurt him anymore. He feels like a coward for the latter, so he commits to the former. "Stay," he says, thin, and coughs wet and red.

"You want me to stay," Dean repeats, his eyes bright but his voice flat. There is a ghost of a smile on his face. Castiel thinks again of snakes, and raptors. 

Castiel hears a dangerous rattle and is half convinced it has come from Dean's chest, a warning purr, but when Dean's palm flattens over his sternum and it quiets, he realizes it is the blood in his own throat. 

Dean presses down there gently, so gently that Castiel almost doesn't feel the air wheeze out of his chest, and leans in until their faces are so close they share breath.

"When are you gonna get that me staying is a bad idea? What's it gonna take?"

Castiel cannot tell where this body's reaction to danger ends and his own nebulous fear and want begin, but his throat is tight with nausea and his heart is frantic as a bird beating against the cage of his ribs. There is a minute tremor running through the whole of his body which feels simultaneously too hot and too cold. This fear is mortal; his vessel can be destroyed, after all, and this time he doubts his Father would look up long enough to piece it back together. And the blade in his shoulder could destroy him to his fundament, the instant Dean decided to draw and strike him at the core.

Why, he wonders, is he more afraid now than when the blade was hanging over his heart?

"If I leave," Dean says, conversationally, hovering, "I'm just gonna use this--" (and here he gestures vaguely at himself, his bloodied knuckles, the Mark) "--on the monsters that deserve it. You don't want to see what happens if I'm locked up in a box with the good guys. Do you?"

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but his lungs will not draw the air; Dean's weight is on his palm, now, and Castiel gapes like a fish. Dean grins, cool and mocking. "What's that? Couldn't hear you."

Castiel looks away, hardens his bloodied mouth.

"Maybe you _do_ wanna see what happens," Dean muses, the hand not pressing the breath out of Castiel's chest drifting toward the blade through his shoulder. "You and Sam, I swear," he mutters, huffing a joyless laugh, "you guys play with matches and then act all surprised when the fire starts."

Dean's fingers wrap slowly around the hilt of the blade, and the tiny shift this causes is enough to send jolts of electricity through vessel and spirit alike. Castiel's legs jerk like a hanged man's and his vision fades on the edges. 

"Maybe if you get burned, you'll listen to me for once and just _stop when I tell you to._ "

To make the point, he twists the blade sharply in place, and Castiel blacks out.

* * *

There are lightning storms in Castiel's mind. He does not dream, not really, but in the twilight state between the obliteration of sense and awakening trapped inside his screaming body, he has visions that attempt to make sense of the chaos inside, and it is something of the same.

Castiel thinks of crows.

He has watched for eons, knows so many of the peculiarities of the creatures of this planet, and he has watched the crows at their mourning. He has seen the misfire of synapses in mating season when the grief is too great and the pain and the need all tangle messily, watched them scream then fall silent, hold vigil or tear apart the corpse or mate beside it. Black feathers splay and glisten iridescent, spread and hovering, while the murder cannot decide whether this time they will lay gifts at the side of the body or howl at it or mate with it or rend its feathers.

Castiel thinks perhaps he understands them better now.

He awakens to the room bathed in his own light, his vessel shrieking agony but silently, throat full of blood and mouth gaping. Seizures of pain and random confusion are jolting through him, limbs twitching irregularly; the beginnings of an erection stir, wings thump broken, tattered feathers jerk and twist.

Fingers glide between the shafts of feathers--corporeal fingers, solid and impossible--and his eyes roll wild in his skull like a panicked horse, trying to see. Dean's body shouldn't be able to look on his light without burning, shouldn't be able to touch the celestial with its mortal flesh, but Dean isn't mortal now, really, not in the ways that count. Castiel's perfect sight and the impoverished human vision of his vessel mesh the images together uncomfortably, see the once grand wings he has always known and the strange shadow they cast on this earth, sees the human fingers tangling there where they shouldn't be able to touch or manipulate and the dark shadow of something clawed and ravenous curling past them. Dean picks at a splitting sheath made of grace with a nail made of keratin and it threatens to leave Castiel dizzy. A shadowy fist of raptor claws twist into the silhouette of feathers and snap a shaft and Castiel--self and vessel both--lurches nauseous, grasping blindly for escape.

"Back with us?" Dean asks, grim and gleeful, and Castiel spits blood and bile aside onto the floor. 

Dean laughs, but there is no mirth. "I tell you guys I gotta hurt things, I gotta kill, and what do you want to do? Hole up with me while you figure shit out." One hand drifts through the feathers and another down the cracked ribs, and Castiel wonders what Dean sees, if the Mark and his flesh are at war combining images of shadow and light. He wonders muzzily if Dean sees the inky, iridescent feathers of crows, the blue-green gleam where the light lands; if he, too, is torn between scream and kill and mate and tear and fly.

A hand grips Castiel's erection painfully through his trousers and there is another shock of lightning.

"That what this is really about?" Dean asks, smile hateful. "You still got a hard-on for me after all these years?" His fingers drift easy for a moment, deceptively gentle, and broken wing and hard flesh both surge in Dean's hands, sending little zaps into the place where Castiel's spine and celestial core are entwined, trapped together.

"I don't--" Castiel tries to protest, a shock of shame sending heat to his broken face, but Dean twists his fingers into the down and grips his testicles hard and Castiel chokes on the lie.

"Yeah, you do," Dean responds, flat and final, and Castiel thinks one of his lacrimal ducts is leaking, feels the tickle of a tear cutting a track through the dried blood down his temple. 

The bone bordering it is still cracked and attempting to heal; Castiel supposes it could be malfunctioning.

"Bad idea, buddy," Dean says grimly, letting go of his testicles to yank at Castiel's belt. "I'm no good for you. I'm no good for anybody."

"You--are good. With us." Castiel tries to say it forcefully, but it sounds broken open, a plea or a prayer. "Please," he adds, dim. "Let us--"

Dean growls, and there is a proliferation of teeth on his soul, an ugly bubble of anger looming large. _"No."_ A clutch of feathers bend and snap beneath his fingers--claws?--and the coiling, smoky blot surges. 

Over Dean's lovely, human face, contorted now with rage, Castiel thinks he can see a long muzzle superimposed.

He wonders if the Mark can bite with its own teeth, or if it must use Dean's. 

"You wanna get burned," Dean mutters. "Fine with me."

Castiel's belt is jerked open, and his trousers, and Castiel reaches feebly to right them but Dean swats his hand back down. They catch under his dead weight, so Dean tears them, careless, grinds his own denim-covered erection against Castiel's, glaring into his eyes while Castiel tries and fails to look away.

He thinks of Purgatory, of the endless, grey, dim light and the dark holes they would find when they needed to rest and pretend it was night. He remembers one night--or two, or three, surely no more than a half-dozen--holed up in a cave with hands wrapped around one another's erections, snatching rest and contact and the human things Dean still needed; grasping at the ember of light in Dean that Castiel still needed, would always need. It was always too rough and too brief, always determinedly unacknowledged, barely existing at all. Castiel cannot bear to look at it often; he knew instinctively that when they returned to Earth, _if_ they returned, it would end, and indeed they have never spoken of it. It is not his to miss.

But he remembers, and aches. Here, faced with this, with hot breath against his face and teeth bared, something threatens to crack inside of him, and he mistakes it at first for another rib but cannot find the damage in bone or flesh. It is--something else.

He wonders if this is what humans mean by heartbreak.

"Dean," he tries again, and this time it is an abject plea; this time his arm is mended enough to reach up, to grip Dean's shoulder, albeit weakly.

Dean breaks the bone again, and shoves off of him. Castiel's erection is rubbed raw and weeping precum, as confused as the rest of him.

One fist twists in Castiel's hair, and another around the angel blade, and Castiel thinks perhaps this time is the last, that Dean will dispense with him now, send him hurtling into nothingness. When the blade pulls free of the ground, his wings spread wide, beating desperate and futile to escape, but there is nowhere to go.

Dean curses as the light whites out the room, but shoves Castiel over onto his face and slams the blade home again through one wing. It drives into the ground, and Castiel wishes he would become unconscious again.

He does not.

He lies face to face now with the dead boy. He struggles to look away, but the hand in his hair leaves him stuck where he is, broken and flat on the marble.

"Maybe you can be some use to me after all," Dean says, and Castiel can hear that he is sneering. "How's that? Stay around, keep you as my personal punching bag whenever I need to let off steam..."

Castiel hears the buckle rattle on Dean's belt, and his jeans unzipping. He does not think this is one of the intended uses of punching bags.

One arm comes under his waist and hauls him up onto his knees, mindless of how it jerks his wing against the blade. His wings beat desperate again, but Castiel can imagine how the trapped and tugging one must look to Dean, to the Mark. _Catch me,_ it says. _I cannot escape._

_Kill._

Even the one flapping free is lurching heavy and burdened with broken feathers.

Dean spits between them, down into the cleft of Castiel's buttocks, and lets go of his hair to grip a fistful of the feathers instead. 

Castiel twists his face away from the corpse, ashamed of the relief he feels to put it out of sight. It is short-lived; Dean is forcing his erection inside, into Castiel's vessel, and soon it feels like it is digging deep enough that it must surely be reaching all the way into his grace. Or perhaps this is the way when a Knight of Hell mounts an angel; the Mark may be too big for Dean's body the way Castiel's grace overfills his vessel. 

Teeth sink into the back of his neck. Castiel wonders whose teeth they are, and if it matters. 

He thinks of the marks the teeth will leave.

Dean ruts like a predator, hard and fast, pinning Castiel by the neck and wings. It is a threat and a claim both, and Castiel cannot tell if he is mate or prey--if this will end with Dean's orgasm or Castiel's destruction, or some confluence of the two.

Dean growls, inhuman, every time he collides sharp with Castiel's vessel. The force is enough to rock him forward in increments, driving his weight into his face and chest, but the blade does not yield and neither does Dean, and Castiel imagines his vessel is giving way in ways it is not meant to, fears Dean will somehow pierce clean through him. He imagines his vessel cracking open like a geode, spilling his grace out at the seams until nothing of him is left.

He imagines being left hollowed out inside, cored out by the dark thing on his back.

Dean's fingers slip down the shafts of his feathers, slick with sweat, and the sensation is something like skin crawling or hairs standing on end, a sensory overload that makes the entire wing twitch. At first Castiel does not realize it is painless; amidst the lightning storm he cannot tell vessel from grace or pain from simple vibration. Another day it could be pleasant, intense and shivering; here it is too raw and too intimate for the pain he is in.

He stares at the marble floor and tries to imagine the fingers in his feathers on that impossible other day. By tiny increments his fingers curl, his eyelids close halfway, and he can almost, _almost_ reconcile the two, almost feel the shiver through his wing set apart from the rest. And when Dean reaches beneath him, grips his flagging erection in fist and begins to tug at it carelessly (Castiel cannot fathom why, cannot begin to guess what he gains from it), a groan slips out unbidden.

Dean laughs.

Perhaps mockery is reason enough.

Castiel closes his eyes and endeavors to maintain silence.

"Don't know--" Dean puffs, short of breath, against his neck, "--why you even still have these." He rumples the feathers with a hand. "Useless and--busted up--might as well fall off..."

Castiel jerks reflexively--the thought is anathema.

Even broken, he does not think he could bear to lose them again. Without his wings, he is less than angel but less than human, too. _What do you call a thing with no wings and no soul?_ he thinks, like the beginning of a joke. 

He doesn't know the answer, only that he doesn't want to be the punchline.

A finger traces the uneasy seam where the wing of grace emerges from the shoulder of vessel. "Wonder what'd happen if I just took that blade and..." Dean makes a noise Castiel has learned is meant to imitate slicing but which does not sound much like it at all. He jerks again, an automatic panic, and Dean laughs on a breath, slowing down his hips but speeding up his hand.

"Don't like that idea, huh?" Dean takes his hand back, spits in it, and returns it to Castiel's erection, finding a rhythm that is strange but compelling, the fast and fluttering repetition he remembers from Purgatory as uniquely Dean's. Castiel is terrified but the pressure rises low in his groin just the same. "Yeah..." Dean muses, grinding himself now slow and steady inside of Castiel's vessel, "maybe if I tell you, 'you keep coming after me and I'll rip those little wings off'..." 

"Dean," Castiel warns, repulsion rising. The assault he can forgive--will forgive, they have all forgiven one another so much--but this threat is too much. He tries again to plan escape, to direct his healing strategically, but struggles to pinpoint the gravest injuries through the bizarre feedback between the body and center where they scream _warning_ and _damage_ and the overstimulated, raw nerve sensations in his wings and his groin. He can barely think through the mess of pain and feedback. When he tries to move, the response is not much more promising; a bent arm here or a twitched wing there, a shock of pain when he pulls against the blade.

"Then maybe, finally, you'll stop when I tell you," Dean growls, and his breath is too hot and too damp on the back of Castiel's neck. He thinks of hellhounds, imagines the vague, smoky shape of the predator on his back. He orgasms then, emptying into Dean's hand, nauseous and feeling emptied out inside.

He closes his eyes and waits, dizzy, for Dean to finish, too.

But Dean pulls out, staggers up, plants his knee on Castiel's raised buttocks instead, and there is a wet sound, the same fluttering rhythm Dean favors for masturbation. Castiel does not understand why he makes this change, but tries to focus on his clavicle and scapulae, to healing what he will need to push up from the ground when he is able.

Dean grunts, twice, then groans satisfied, leaning forward as he climaxes.

The fluid jets in irregular spurts, splotches over Castiel's cheekbone amidst the blood and tears and in his hair, then drips wet and thick into his wings.

Castiel feels his stomach turn, thinks the vessel would vomit if there were anything left inside. 

Dean reaches, impossibly grips the powerful arch at the top of the wing with calloused fingers and ephemeral darkness, and smears Castiel's own fluids and Dean's onto the surface, into the feathers, gumming the fine shafts of light with base bodily offal. Castiel chokes on--something, perhaps only his own throat, or on the insult--and feels his chest heave and shake against the ground.

How will he ever clean something made of carbon and human decay out of something made of Heaven?

Dean is saying something behind them, and then there is some outbreak of noise, of shouting, of violence--but Castiel does not really hear it. He accounts for the underwater quality with the concussion, but he pictures the geode again, light leaking out until all that is left is something cold and empty, glittering but without life.

He will not forgive Dean today, he thinks. If he lives until tomorrow, he will try again.

The sound draws nearer, and begins slowly to resolve itself into cursing, into kicked books and dragged heels and a choked, "Dean--no--!" It ends abruptly in a thud, with Sam's unconscious body landing heavily beside his.

"You, too, Sammy?" Dean mutters, and a boot connects with Sam's ribs, nudging his limp body closer to Castiel. "Why does everybody think it's their turn to fix me? Who says I'm the one that needs fixing?"

Castiel lets his eyes drift halfway to shut.

"I'm the one fixing our problems, today," Dean says, hard, and Castiel vaguely registers Sam being rolled onto his belly, slack face turned toward Castiel's. He is cut below the eye and his lip is swollen, bleeding. Castiel thinks this is a mirror of a kind. He imagines with a strange lurch in his belly what Sam's face would look like as bloodied as Castiel's, spattered with his own ejaculate.

Dean gathers Sam's wrists up at the small of his back, snaking his belt around them in a figure eight and jamming the end through the buckle, yanking it tight.

"Your turn, little brother," Dean says, grim and satisfied, and hauls Sam up by the hips.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time putting written Destiel explicitly on the screen!!


End file.
